


sisters doin' it for themselves

by jadeddiva



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-24 10:58:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6151415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadeddiva/pseuds/jadeddiva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary:  Upon her return to the Stark mansion, Peggy is restless and takes matters into her own hands.  Peggysous, with references to past Steggy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sisters doin' it for themselves

They return to Howard’s mansion at an absolutely reasonable hour as far as Peggy is concerned (eight o’clock, which she hasn’t really seen in quite some time, at least not from the vantage point of one who is done with their daily labor and may rest).  Jarvis pulls the car around front and they exit, Howard and Jason and herself, heading into the house with the promise of whisky and bourbon and whatever else “tickles their fancy” ( _that man and his mouth will be the death of her_ ).       


Peggy stops on the threshold to stretch her limbs, taking in the California twilight, rosy fingers stretching out across the sky between the palm trees (which she actually has grown quite fond of) that line the drive.  She likes Los Angeles – the weather and the sun and the fact that she can see the sky above her, which is something she rather missed in New York (she remembers the fields back home, the trees and the paths and the way that everything felt so big – like she was on top of the world).  

“Coming, Peg?” Howard asks in the doorway, and she turns.  The adrenaline from their confrontation with Whitney Frost has faded into a low buzz that may be exhaustion, may be something else entirely.

“I think I’ll turn in for the night, actually,” she says in response, and even though the men protest her impending absence, she thinks they’ll have plenty to talk about on their own.

Her room in Howard’s mansion is lovely, and there is no chance that someone who come after her tonight, so she opens the windows wide and lets the cool air blow in.  She takes her time removing her makeup and jewelry, twisting her hair into her pin-curls before bed, trying to get some of the jitters out of her bones but nothing seems to work.  When she slides into bed she is a weird combination of anxious and exhausted, content that the mission has concluded without a problem but frustrated nonetheless (she closes her eyes to see Daniel fall to the ground, remembers the emptiness in her stomach when she thought he would be sucked into the vortex - )

With a sigh, she punches the pillow beside her and turns over, but the friction of the move makes her gasp and –

_Oh._

It’s one of _those_ nights.  

In the past, in the dark of night when frustration coils low in her belly, Peggy has thought of Steve as her hand slides between her legs.  Sometimes she thinks of him as he was when they first met – skinny and small and brave and fearless – and she imagines it is his hand instead of hers.   


Most of the time, she thinks of him as he was when they first met, but there are times when she pictures him as the man he became, imagines her hands sliding across his broad shoulders and threading in the soft short hair at the nape of his neck, the feel of his clean-shaven cheek against her inner thigh.  It is always silent in these fantasies (the only words that she can think of Steve saying are the last words he said and she does not like to think of those words.)

It’s almost always Steve, and it’s almost always when she’s trying not to think of him that he appears, a ghost hiding in the corners of her memory even when she thinks he’s disappeared for the last time.

Tonight, though, as one hand drifts lower and the other rises to cup her breast through the thin silk of her pajamas, it is not the feather-soft hair of Steve that she imagines, but thick and coarse, heavy in her fingers and –

_Daniel._

He is there, in her mind, lying across the lower half of the bed, head between her legs (she is quite pleased with the way that her imagination has conjured him up). He turns his head in her hands, presses a kiss against the soft skin of her inner thigh, fingers moving from her knees up and back, stroking in time with the way that she moves her hand across her stomach.

It’s not a surprise to her that he is the one she wants tonight (they’ve are objects in motion, drifting together then being pulled apart, and it’s only recently that she’s found herself paying close attention to the way that he makes her feel when his hand touches hers, the way that she can’t look away from his lips when he’s speaking or how she feels like she’s on fire when he stands too close).  It is a surprise at how _real_ it feels when he looks up at her, fingers sliding over the bundle of nerves between her thighs as her back arches at the contact.

 _Daniel,_ she says, or she thinks she says, and then, feeling guilty at how bad she wants him right now and how she turned him away so easily before, _you don’t have to -_   

 _Trust me, Peggy, there’s no where I’d rather be right now_ , is his response, and it’s strange, to hear words in one of these fantasies where silence has reigned, where the only sounds are the frantic beating of her heart and her breathless gasps, and she wonders if it’s because of who she’s imagining (she admires Daniel, the way that he holds firm to his beliefs, his constant drive for what is good and true, but the reasons she care so much for him slip between the cracks of her mind as he pushes her forward, fingers working her to the point where she breaks, grabbing her pillow to drown out her sudden cry).  

He does it again, and again, until she’s quivering beneath his fingertips and he doesn’t shut up, words coming fast and furious into her mind about being _brilliant_ and _irritating_ and _beautiful_ and _those tits, Peggy, I swear to god I’m going to lose my mind when I watch you swing your hips and those tits in that red dress and good god you’re fucking amazing you know that_ _right?_ And there’s a part of her that knows she’s just telling herself things that she wants to hear (things that she wants to hear from him, specifically) but it’s working her up in ways she didn’t know possible and when she crashes back down for the third time, she’s going to lose her own damn mind.

In her fantasy, she blinks open her eyes to watch his hips grind into the bed as he dips his head and then her eyes slam shut again as his mouth is there, and his fingers are plunging into her and she knows that she’s just doing it to herself, that this is just her own doing but she breathes it in, tries to remember every second of the feel of soft and slow and then fast and just the right amount of pressure ( _how does he know?/she knows how he knows_ ) and when she comes she hears his muffled groan as she tugs his hair too tight, feels the weight of the bed shift as he presses himself into the comforter more and –

Her eyes snap open and she is alone.

The loss of him is so much more acute when she’s still vibrating from her last orgasm, limbs weak and body sated and she turns her head to the side, away from the picture of Howard that is the last thing she wants to see.  She rolls over, presses her face into the cool side of the pillow and tries not to feel the loss – of contact, of him – but she can’t.  It’s so acute, the fact that he was here and now he’s not, and she knows, deep down, what she really wants.

(She’s pretty sure she’ll get it, too, if she asks nicely).

(In the end she doesn’t ask nicely but he doesn’t seem to mind.)


End file.
